A Mexican wedding

I heard the word ‘magical’ tossed around a lot in talking about my son’s destination wedding on the Mayan Riviera in Mexico.

‘Special,’ too, got its moments in the hot Mexican sun as friends and family tried to put in words how they felt about the happy couple and about the week we all spent at the Iberostar Playa Pariso resort on the Yucatan Pennisula celebrating with them.

There was really no need to be any more descriptive (though I’m going to try anyway) because ‘magical’ and ‘special’ pretty much sums up what was a wonderful ceremony and a helluva party afterwards that lasted five more days before we all (most of us anyway) had to return to reality.

The wedding party

Reality that was – at least for a couple of days – not unlike what we left, with a heatwave greeting us at Pearson. A final nod and a wink from Mother Nature on an amazing adventure and proof there was just a little magic in the air that week.

This was a trip I was very much looking forward to and it was extra special for me because it was one I would have had to decline pre-pandemic when I was broke, depressed and far from affording anything like a week at a fancy-pants (or no pants, as it were) all-inclusive resort on the Caribbean Sea.

But moving back home to help take care of my Dad, getting back into journalism full-time and finally starting to take care of myself in my golden years has worked wonders for my health, my psyche and my back account and I wasn’t missing this for the world.

Best decision I’ve made in a long time, as it was Cam’s best decision to say yes to Ashley.

My boy has had a couple of long-term relationships in the past; both were very nice young women, but Ashley was the first to really get Cameron. Cam has always been a smart kid and he wasn’t going to let this one get away.

Seriously. Look at these beautiful kids.

The happy couple

The decision to get married – in Mexico, no less – was way better than the call I made to go on a walkabout in a strange Mexican town without getting my bearings on where my ride home was, but that’s something for later on in this tale.

Anyway, bright and early on a Wednesday morning I was headed to Pearson and my flight to Cancun and despite numerous scare stories about Sunwing flights we had no issues and in fact, in a miracle rivaling the immaculate conception, my luggage was the first one on the carousal when we arrived to oppressive humidity (and palm trees!!) in Mexico.

Too bad I had to wait for all the other losers  wonderful people in our group before we could get on the bus to take us to the resort, but I’ll take miracles when I can find them.

The resort was beautiful, but huge, with five resorts in the same place (I got lost a lot) but we all quickly discovered where the bars and buffets were (priorities!) and we didn’t go too hard in the first day-and-a-half in paradise. Friday was a big day, after all.

We did have an incident on the first night when Louise, the bride’s grandmother, took a tumble and had to be taken to a local hospital. It was safe to say neither she nor her daughter Joanne, who escorted her mom on the unplanned excursion, were thrilled with how their first night in paradise went.

“A 45-minute ambulance ride in Mexico when shit-faced is not fun,” she deadpanned on the group chat.

Louise came out of the ordeal bruised and a bit banged up but was able to regain most of the spring in her step by Friday to see Ashley, her granddaughter and my new daughter-in-law, say the magic words – with considerable conviction, I might add – and marry my son Cam.

But that was another day away and we still had Thursday, which I spent part of taking a cab a few miles north to visit a brewery – Pescadore – to sample a few Mexican craft beers, dream about being young again (aahh, Jasmine…) and try not to get lost again.

A man cannot live forever on resort cervezas (Dos Equis), ya know.

Happy? I think so

For the record, the IPA was extremely west coast – bracingly bitter, in fact – and the best beer of the lot just may have been their Mexican lager.

Go figure.

Thursday night it was a fire dancing down at the beach and searching for the swimming pools, which you’d think would be an easy task except it’s me and when I finally found it I was in the wrong resort with the wrong wristband and at the wrong pool.

But I chilled in the forbidden pool with a couple of contraband drinks anyway and came to the realization I might be in heaven after all.

Which is definitely where Cam and Ashley believed they were the next day at what was an absolutely beautiful ceremony in a wedding gazebo midway between the lobby and the beach Friday afternoon; the mid-point in what was a magical day (there’s that word again) for all 40 or guests who had flown down for the occasion.

Brotherly bond

While Ashley and her bridesmaids were busy getting ready us menfolk were hanging in Alex’s room, with me watching my boys (Cam, the groom and Matt, his best man) prepare for the moment with a lot of collar adjusting and tie tying that had me and Paul both thinking – jeez, there’s two Dads in here; you coulda asked us...

It was a very touching moment.

The ceremony was beautiful (like I said, Ashley said YES! with conviction, so I guess Cam’s a keeper) and Ashley looked positively radiant in her wedding dress.

One of the moments I captured that I love is the look on big brother Matt’s face when the vows were exchanged and the bride and groom had their first kiss. Priceless. A shit-eating grin of pure joy.

First kiss

A brief reception/photo session in an adjoining lawn was soon followed by the real reception over in the resort’s plaza courtyard. Which I was late for because, well, I got lost again. (I heard the Convention Centre. There was no one in the Convention Centre. Maybe they were trying to tell me something)

Anyway, there was a lot of dancing and more drinking and a few speeches, including one from Paul where he thanked me for being the awesome father that I am, prompting to give my ex’s ex a big hug. Never too late, man.

A bunch of us ended up in the neighbouring disco, which ended with Ryan getting a ride home from security in a wheelchair because, well, alcohol reasons. And Ryan reasons. I love this kid.

A good time was had by all, I reckon.

One more picture from the ceremony I loved, though Ashley wasn't a fan. "You can see my double chin," she said. Bah, look at the sun shining on you just right. Radiant, my dear. Radiant, I tell ya.

Radiant

Saturday was recovery day for most of us and in our defence we had already enjoyed three days in a tropical paradise. The first few days at an all-inclusive you tend to drink and eat to excess but eventually you discover there’s only so many Mai Tais, Rum Punches (no Grenadine please, I’m trying to watch my figure), Pina Coladas, Strawberry Daquiris, Tequila Sunrises, Margueritas, Mojitos and Cervezas one can drink in a day.

Turns out that number is a lot when they’re already paid for but my point still stands.

The food was also very good, with plenty of selection at the buffets and diner and fast food options around the resort as well. There were ala carte restaurants but I only took advantage of one (you get three) and I very nearly went into a meat coma after an evening at the Brazilian spot.

The local wildlife was pretty cool too. On the bus ride from the airport I thought I saw some Coatis – essentially Mexican Raccoons and a beast I had never seen before – and pointed it out to Paul, my seatmate for the bus ride.

Oops! (How did that get in here?_

Never heard of them, says he. On arrival the thrill of seeing a new critter disappated kinda quick. There were literally hundreds of them on the resort, with so many there were occasional squabbles when rival families met up. Good thing they made up quick, as you see by the x-rated pic on the left.

The little ones were adorable for sure but the cuteness wore off at the beach, where plates of food from thr beachside snack bar were left on the tables and the Coatis would help themselves, whether you were sitting at the table or not.

Ryan even had an encounter with one such Coati that left him scratched and bloody. “I never want to see one of these things again,” he said.

Several Agoutis (sort of mini Capybaras, or groundhogs with super long legs) made their homes on the resort grounds and would make occasional appearances as well. 

Agouti!

Wild pigs, likely Peccaries, were spotted outside the resort, though I didn’t see any, and there were also sightings of some sort of monkey on the beach. Alas, not by me.

There were plenty of birds on the resort, including Peacocks, Swans (black and the regular white variety) and enough assorted wild birds to warm this birder’s heart. My favourites were the Great Kiskadees flitting about on the grounds and the Magestic Frigate Bird being super majestic soaring a few hundred feet up in the sky.

I also identified a Golden-fronted Woodpecker and plenty of Great-tailed Grackles, which are just like our Grackles except they have really great tails and better press agents.

Iggy

Lizards were everywhere too, from tiny little geckos and skinks to massive iguanas who let you know who was the boss on the resort. One such fellow was sunning out on a lawn, with just the tip of his tail on the sidewalk to remind you he lives here, when I stopped for a few pics and a stare down. Which I lost.

As I walked away I noticed Iggy had slapped his whole tail on the sidewalk  Boss power move, I thought. Major props to Iggy.

From the thumping retro pop sounds emanating from the local disco, a series of nightly musical acts in the lobby to tug-of-wars, volleyball and a foam party in the pools, Iberostar had enough fun things going on to keep us entertained. The foam party, though, was something I am glad I missed after hearing multiple reports of several in our party nearly dying a horrible death from drowning-by-foam, which is apparently one of the leading cases of tourist deaths on Mexican resorts.

Fire dancing

But the best show at the resort was an spectacularly funny performance at Karaoke Night by some of the groomsmen channeling the Backstreet Boys. The Canadian Boys, as they styled themselves, had an epic performance at Karaoke Night that had half of the very pro-Mexican crowd (the competition was a couple of singers belting out local folk songs and one guy doing his best Yucatan Paverotti) thinking they must be part of the show.

Led by Travis (clearly Nick Carter in disguise) and Matt B. (the reincarnation of Kevin Richardson), these dudes put on a show worthy of ... well, worthy of something. They were actually pretty cool. 

Here - you be the judge.

Backstreet's Back and the Canadian Boys. 

The more times you heard it the more you realize Travis and the lads are no Pavarotti, or even Michael Buble. But the showmanship? These guys were a hoot.

The entertainment I missed and wished I hadn't (not really - it wouldn't be a Glenn vacation if I wasn't screwing up something - was a Catamaran adventure that by all acounts - and I heard many of them - was a fabulous time.

No, I decided I'd rather go into the nearest town, Playa del Carman, and check out the scenery. You know, like a local. So paid $40 US to take the shuttle in to what turned out to be a half very touristy, half very much crumbling to the ground village for what was supposed to be a three-hour tour.

And I think we've a heard that refrain before.

Fortunately I got back to my home base quicker than Gilligan but the adventure took at least six hours after I got lost (qu'elle surprise) numerous times and missed my shuttle ride home, forcing me to trudge through what I can chartitably call the rough part of town for more than two of those hours before I found a bus 'station.'

For just 30 pesos (plus 40 pesos more to cab the last two blocks to get to the little bus depot after I gave up looking for the damn place. "Just another five blocks amigo." Sure...) I got the bus back to the resort and the free drinks that awaited.

Me and the King of Tequila

But the trip wasn't all bad. I finally got to see the 'real' Mexico and hell, it was a bit of fun. I even got to have a drink with the 'King of Tequila' and saw some Quintana Roo royalty walking a daschound. Well, I thought she was a queen, anyway...

But it was good to finally be back; that was for damn sure,

As with any vacation with friends, it's the people that make the trip memorable, and we had some pretty special people on this one. 

I've talked about the lovely bride Ashley and of the dashing groom Cameron and his best man and big brother Matt. And I've mentioned Cam's long-time pal Ryan, who I've known for 20 years or so and has been getting into and out of trouble for most of it. (His father Mike, by the by, is a spitting image of my brother Craig. But I digress.) 

Ryan's ride home. Photo credit to
Alex for this one, I think

There's Ryan's better half Shay, who despite having her hands full with Ryan also used those hands to win the women's division of the pool side rope pull test of strength AND correctly identified 'Agouti.'

Rodney and Courtney, the aforementioned Alex and New Jersey Devil mega fan Steve, who was also one of the more entertaining members of the Canadian boys, all added something special to the resort experience.

Another long-time friend, Connor, came all the way from Australia where he is an actual doctore of medicine, and he brought his charming girlfriend Lauren along for the party.

(These globetrotters had a busy agenda after Mexico, including Oshawa to see Connor's Mom, Granada to see his Dad and Miami and Colombia as well)

There is also my good friends Justin (my pal Jeff's son) and the super cool Stephanie (she came up with 'Baby Capyberra' for the Agouti, while Justin offered 'Master Splinter') and Travis' wife Madolyne (she preferred 'Rat Pig'), as well as Taylor and Chris, April and Matt and a half dozen more friends of Cam And Ashley.

The Disco

A Mai Tai in paradise

Jasmine from Pescadora

The adorable Coati.
Right Ryan?

Matt and Paul. Day 1

I can't forget Joanne - who makes every party better - and her family group of six. Or Kevron, Tracy and Steve, who rocked a dinosaur outfit at the pool for kicks and giggles.

For us, anyway. The bartenders weren't too happy with T-Rex's dangerous tail.

And then there's Mandee, who rocks my son Matt's world.

There were the Goulet boys - proud uncles and cousin to the groom - in Matt, Paul and Jason; as well my favourite new friends from the trip: Thuy (pronounced 'Twee') - Joanne's neighbour and BFF - her lovely daughters Quinn and Reagan - and Thuy's friend Thelma (the nuclear engineer).

Thuy, Joanne, Ashley, Quinn and Reagan

Stephanie and Justin

Madolyne and Travis

Me

 

 

 

 

All these wonderful peeps all made for a memorable week in the sun in Mexico, all in support of a wonderful couple who are clearly loved by a lot of people.

Me, I'm one of them. Congratulations kids!

  This Remembrance Day blog was first published in 2013 and has been faithfully reprinted every year since, with a few tweaks each time. Lest we forget

I Remember

Je mes souviens. I remember

I remember my great-grandmother’s tears when she sent four of her boys off to fight in the Great War. I remember her muted joy at seeing three of them return safe but never truly sound; her son John – my father carries his name – fought valiantly during that horrible spring of 1917 before he was left behind in the deadly quagmire that was the first day of Passenchedale.

I remember Uncle John, one of 32,000 men who died that day, with honour.

I remember English Sally, she who married a son of Pennan, walking the length of the island from her family home in the great naval port of Portsmouth to the north-east coast of Scotland, just to be with her man, homeward bound from the Napoleonic Wars.

I remember Alexander Hendry of Aberdeenshire fighting for his freedom at Culloden in 1746. Life for Alexander and the rest of the Scots who fought with Bonnie Prince Charlie would never be the same.

I remember a newlywed Rozel straining to deliver her baby on the very day her husband, an American loyal to the crown and kin to my children, was fighting for Canada’s freedom alongside Isaac Brock at Queenston Heights. The soldier would return safely to meet his son; his wife would not see either ever again.

Passenchedale

I remember my Great-Uncle Charlie, who had left his wife behind while he tried to earn a living in Malaysia’s rubber industry, struggling to stay alive in a Japanese POW camp during World War II. Charlie, who served me marmalade on toast when I visited him in Rotorua, New Zealand 44 years later, risked his life to keep a diary as he toiled daily to rebuild the bridge over the River Kwai, while the good guys rained down a daily torrent of death from above.

I remember a son of a former classmate losing his life in Afghanistan; the shock when I read the news lingers with me still.

I remember my friend's Uncle Don, a Second World War Navigator who died in battle in the summer of 1944. Don passed on his name to his nephew and his story to you.

I remember the 3rd Canadian Infantry and Pvt George Savage - father to Jamie - braving an apocalypse of bombs and gunfire to land at Juno Beach on D-Day 1944 to begin their push into Germany.

I remember other Dads from the neighbourhood and their efforts in that war as well. Art Canfield - father of Bruce, Diane and Paul - served with the Royal Regiment of Canada and Phil Hennessey - father of John - got to meet General George S. Patton.

I remember Tom McCaw - father to Janine - enjoying great meals and an accommodation upgrade on a Canadian naval ship because crew members were convinced he was King George VI in hiding.

I remember Frederick Wilmot - grandfather to Nicole - who enlisted in 1941 and rose to the rank of Sergeant.

I remember Vic Shirreffs, my first father-in-law, who served as a stoker in the Canadian Navy.

Oshawa. 2018

I remember Royal Navy Seaman Stanley March, great-grandfather of Josh, and I remember Bill Ryan, father of Dave, who fought with the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders.

 I remember William Findlay, great-grandfather of Amy and the youngest Sergeant Major in the British Army, being awarded the Distinguished Medal of Honour.

 I remember the funeral of a young man related to me by marriage who was just beginning his military career. The sound of the pipes as they played Amazing Grace sent shivers up my spine. I will never forget that day.

 I remember my friend Hago, who did two tours - the first in Kosovo and the second in Afghanistan - and continues to serve to this day.

 I remember Scottie, who earned his Marksman Award four years running in Pettawawa. I remember the future pilots at the old Portage la Prairie air base in Manitoba; and the men and women from the local armoury in Oshawa who came out to Karaoke at Stag's Head on Tuesday nights.

I remember Vimy Ridge, the four-day battle in the spring of 1917 that marked - at a cost of 10,000 soldiers killed or wounded - a coming of age for Canada as a nation, as well as the end of our innocence about wars and the people who profit from them.

I also remember my friend Sandi's simple description of four members of her family who served in both World Wars: "Heroes. Each and every one."

I remember my friend Diane's Uncle Fred, a pilot in the Second World War and her father, who was training in Canada when the war ended.

I remember the family of Don from OPG who served, including Great Uncle William (WW1), grandmother Gertrude (Bomb Girl), grandfather Noel (training officer), uncle William (WW2) and cousins Randall (Afghanistan), Jonathan (Kuwait) and Matthew (Lebanon). Don, an active volunteer today, continues the tradition of helping his community.

I remember the Remembrance Day service held a day early a few years back in downtown Brooklin for the benefit of the school children. After being so many generations removed from war it was important the kids knew what their parents, grandparents and great-grandparents were fighting for, and that they would have a better understanding of what they were supposed to remember.

 I  remember every soldier I have ever known and I remember those who fought and died for me and my family and for our freedom, and for the freedom that we all enjoy and too often take for granted.

 

I remember the families and friends of those soldiers and the tears that were shed for fallen loved ones.

 I remember the blood spilled by innocents, and I remember the heartbreak of everyone affected by war.

I remember like it was yesterday the signing of the Armistice to end the Great War. One hundred and five years ago today.

I remember. So I won’t ever forget.

 The Unknown Warrior

 by Moz Perkins

On November 7, 1920, in strictest secrecy, four unidentified British bodies were exhumed from temporary battlefield cemeteries at Ypres, Arras, the Asine and the Somme. None of the soldiers who did the digging were told why.

One body was then chosen at random and taken by horse-drawn carriage through Guards of Honour and the sound of tolling bells and bugle calls to the quayside, where he was loaded onto HMS Vernon bound for Dover. The Unknown Warrior was met at Dover with a nineteen gun salute - something that was normally only reserved for Field Marshals – and finally taken to Westminster Abbey where the soldier became part of the second Armistice Day ceremony.

The idea of the unknown warrior was thought of by a Padre called David Railton who had served on the front line during the Great War. It was his intention that all of the relatives of the 517,773 combatants whose bodies had not been identified could believe that the Unknown Warrior could very well be their lost husband, father, brother or son.

THIS is the reason we wear poppies. We do not glorify war. We remember - with humility - the great and the ultimate sacrifices that were made, not just in this war, but in every war and conflict where our service personnel have fought - to ensure the liberty and freedoms that we now take for granted. Every year, on the 11th of November, we remember the Unknown Warrior. At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them.

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Je mes souviens. I remember.

 

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